Mack and I trade a look; Stone’s in a pleasant mood, the prospect of a hefty payday for the club is right on the horizon, and neither of us wants to be the bearer of bad news.
But someone has to.
Finally, I break the silence.
“The FBI came by the clubhouse earlier. Put some light interrogation on Trish and Addie.”
“They fucking threatened my wife and daughter?” Stone says.
There’s rage and murder in his voice. Stone usually keeps his emotions in check — it’s why he’s been a successful leader for our club for all these years — but there’s a whole ‘nother side of him that comes out whenever someone or something threatens his family.
And that side is capable of a lot of violence.
“They were looking for you,” Mack says.
“Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck for?”
“Trish doesn’t think they know what’s going on with our business. She said they wanted to see if anyone’s reached out to you. Apparently there’s a fugitive in town and he might try to seek sanctuary.”
Stone shakes his head, calming down, returning to his typical methodical self.
“It’s probably a cover. You want to know why I settled down in Lone Mesa all those years ago? Why I still enjoy living here? Because it’s quiet. It’s out of the way. Because the idiots that wind up on the FBI’s list don’t come here.”
“Well, apparently someone has,” I say.
“On the day before we’re due to get a weapons delivery? And this supposed fugitive’s arrival also coincides with the arrival of the FBI? Does this pass the smell test to any of you?”
“This has ‘trap’ written all over it,” Rusty says. “Should we postpone the delivery? Call our contact?”
Stone thinks for a moment, then shakes his head.
“I’ll tell him to keep his eyes out, tell him we’ve heard some vague rumors about threats. But I’m sure as hell not putting the word out there that we have the FBI riding our ass. Especially when we’re not sure. A rumor like that could screw our business seven ways from Sunday.”
A loud curse and the clattering sound of a wrench hitting the concrete floor draws all four of us to turn and glare at Goldie, who’s shaking his right hand like it’s in pain and staring in consternation at a part of the truck’s undercarriage.
Stone leans in toward us to whisper. “I think the prospect’s getting a little too comfortable.”
“A distraction could be fun,” Rusty says.
“You know, I don’t like the look of that beater of a Civic out front. It brings down the curb appeal of the whole fucking neighborhood, if you ask me,” Mack says.
“Maybe we should ask Goldie there to move it,” I say.
“If we’re going to do that, he needs to take his pants off,” Rusty says.
“Are we talking about different things here, Rusty?” Stone says. “Is ‘pushing a car’ code for something I don’t want to know about? I really don’t fucking understand your generation sometimes.”
“Stone, no,” Rusty says. “But, if Razor and I had to push your bike through town without wearing any pants, the least we can expect of Goldie is to do the same while pushing that car a couple blocks.”
“You seem determined to get Goldie out of his pants, Officer Rusty,” Mack says.
“Don’t call me that, Mack. I did what I had to do to get Chief Barnes off our back.”
“Enough. Goldie’s moving the car but, Rusty, you’re not getting your wish — the prospect is keeping his pants on. I’ve had enough go wrong today, I don’t need to compound it with Goldie’s junk,” Stone says. Then he raises his voice to shout to Goldie, “Kid, stop ruining my truck. There’s a car parked out front — that busted Honda Civic. You will push it out of the neighborhood and a quarter-mile down the road. Leave it somewhere that the county roads department will see it and tow it out of here. Got it?”
Goldie’s out from under the trunk and running to the front of the warehouse before Stone’s finished talking.
“Yes, Stone,” he says as he runs past.
“The kid’s got enthusiasm,” Mack says. “Is that why you’re so attracted to him, Rusty?”
Rusty opens his mouth to answer, but whatever he is going to say is cut out by a warning scream from out front.
A scream that dies quickly and is drowned by a concussive blast that shakes the entire warehouse to its foundations and sends my heart flashing back to bone-chilling and bloody memories of my service in Afghanistan.
It’s a bomb.
Chapter Three
Adella
“I need you to make sure the tables are set. The boys will be here soon and I’m too busy with these steaks,” my mom calls from the kitchen, her words intermingled with the sound of six steaks sizzling.
It’s tradition in the club to have a big communal dinner the night before a ride, especially a ride that’s as important as the one that’s happening tomorrow; I may not know much about the club’s business, but I can tell when my dad is preparing for something big — I can see the way his jaw seems to set tighter, and the way he carries more stress in his shoulders — whatever is happening tomorrow, it is sure to be big for the club.
Well, I have the fact that it’s enough to keep me from even going to Santa Monica to tell me that, too.
I’ve been raised in the MC, kept close enough for protection — or overprotection, which is how it feels sometimes — but not close enough to know what’s really going on. That kind of knowledge is kept strictly to the men who wear the club’s patch.
Me? I’m just an
